Ghosts Beneath Our Feet by Betty Ren Wright

bobbing gait.
    â€œI’m not lying,” she said. “I saw a girl’s face with lots of blond hair, and a hand. Look for yourself.”
    Joan climbed up on the crate and reached for the sill. “Okay, I will,” she snapped. “But I know you’re making it up.”
    Moments later she was back on the ground. “There isn’t anybody in there. The place is empty—the way it was when we went in.”
    â€œBut she was there a couple of minutes ago. I saw her! Over in the corner close to the shaft.”
    Joan shrugged. Silently, the girls tugged the crate back to where they’d found it and started around the side of the shaft house. Thunder rumbled behind them, and the sky, which had seemed lighter for a while, darkened again. The mine buildings looked a thousand years old in the raw glare of lightning.
    â€œWe’d better hurry,” Joan murmured. She brushed back her wet hair and started off.
    â€œI’m telling you the truth,” Katie said. “I hate it when people say I just imagine things.”
    â€œAnd I hate it when someone thinks I’m a hick who’ll believe anything,” Joan retorted. “You say you saw someone. I say you didn’t. Let it go.”
    â€œI heard noises underground the first night we were in Newquay,” Katie insisted. “I didn’t make that up either.”
    They reached the meadow and waded through the grass, wind rising at their backs. At the top of Newquay hill Joan stopped. “I wasn’t calling you a liar, Katie,” she said. “It’s just that … you want to believe in ghosts, right?”
    â€œIf I see them, I believe in them,” Katie said. “And I don’t think you’re a hick, for Pete’s sake. You aren’t the only person who thinks I imagine things. My brother said I was flaky when I told him about the noise underground.”
    â€œOh, him!” Joan’s big laugh rang out, breaking the tension. “Funny thing, me agreein’ with him!” She began to run down the hill in great, galloping leaps. “So let’s forget the whole thing,” she called. “See you later, okay?”
    â€œOkay.” Katie turned toward the woods.
    The rain began, and she threw back her head to catch the cool drops. Walking in summer rain had always been one of her favorite things to do. But then the drops turned to stinging needles, and thunder burst directly overhead. She began to run, racing light-footed through the woods, which seemed alive and full of movement as the storm closed in.
    Katie called a hello to her mother in the kitchen and slipped upstairs to wash and change her clothes before lunch. She didn’t want to answer questions about where she’d been and what she’d been doing.
    But she needn’t have worried. Mrs. Blaine’s mind was on Jay. He’d left the house right after breakfast without a word.
    â€œHe’s probably with his friend,” Katie said cautiously. “I think they were going somewhere today.”
    â€œWhat’s the friend like?” Mrs. Blaine studied Katie over her coffee cup.
    â€œHis name’s Skip Poldeen. He lives across from Joan. I—I don’t know what he’s like. I hardly met him.”
    Her mother’s lips tightened. “I can tell a lot from the look on your face,” she said. “And I don’t like what I see there.”
    â€œMaybe they’re at Skip’s house.” Katie remembered her dream and pictured the motorcycle skidding up and down the rain-wet streets of Newquay. She glanced across the table at Uncle Frank, hoping for a distraction, but he was busy spitting watermelon seeds into his spoon. No help there.
    The front door slammed, and quick steps sounded on the stairs.
    â€œJay?” her mother called.
    After a defiant pause, the footsteps started back down. Jay came into the kitchen. His hair was soaked, and his shirt clung to his